


Trust In Me

by jazzmilla



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-31
Updated: 2011-08-31
Packaged: 2017-10-23 07:38:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/247827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jazzmilla/pseuds/jazzmilla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He didn’t know how much promises from sociopaths to alcoholics were worth, but at least a much better person had faith in both of them. Set post-TGG.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trust In Me

**Author's Note:**

> A/N - Thanks so much to my beautiful betas [pushthequorumbutton](http://pushthequorumbutton.tumblr.com/) and [airplangs](http://airplangs.tumblr.com/), and to all the awesome people who supported me on my first fanfic endeavor. Un-britpicked, so there's that. All characters lovingly borrowed from BBC.

Six hours. Six hours had passed from the moment Harry’s ringing mobile roused her from her drunk stupor to being curled up in a chair by her brother’s hospital bed wearing a green party dress and old trainers. Those six hours had also taken her from blissfully drunk to nauseatingly sober. Her only comfort was that John couldn’t see her right now. It was their first meeting since she greeted him at Heathrow four months ago, awkwardly hugging his wasted frame (mind the shoulder) and wrestling his large army bag into the back of her jeep.

 _Looks better now_ , she thought. Well, as far as a coma patient went. Harry’s sobriety was not helping her outlook on life. To be honest, she expected him to look a lot worse. A Detective Inspector Lestrade had called her to tell her that there had been an explosion at some swimming pool and that her brother had been in the building at the time, and that he was now in surgery. At first Harry thought she was hallucinating and promptly went back to sleep, but after sitting for five hours in a waiting room, there was no way she could avoid the heavy dread that everything was true, that they were going to roll John out in pieces and ask her to identify him. Afterwards, some nice lady would hold her hand and tell her to fill out some forms just like the ones they had for her mum.

When she finally entered the room, Harry had been pleasantly surprised to see her brother intact with minimal tubing sticking out of his body. Her heart did skip a beat when she saw the giant bandage around his head and the fresh sprawling bruises down his face and body. And that’s the story of how she ended up being squashed into a small chair for the past hour in some vague approximation of comfort.

John’s fingers gave a light twitch, jerking Harry out of her reverie. The first time she felt his hand flinch in hers, she had called the nurse and started to babble a bunch of nonsense to John in the hope that he would open his eyes. The nurse explained to her afterwards that random movements and even small sounds were common with coma patients, but were in no way signs of consciousness. Harry refused to hold John’s hand after that.

Staring once again at the rise and fall of John’s chest, she was lulled back into a light doze. Her head drooped awkwardly onto the back of the chair.

Suddenly, she was back at her apartment, sitting at the table with a bowl of cereal. Except instead of milk, there was Kahlua. Had she run out of milk again? Someone was knocking on her door. _Fuck off_ , Harry thought, _I’m eating_. The knocking persisted. Harry flung the bowl away from her and stood up...only to find herself once more by her brother’s bedside. The knocking hadn’t stopped though.

“Come in?” Harry ventured to say.

The first thing to enter the door was an umbrella, followed by a man dressed in attire entirely too impeccable for 8 a.m. on a Saturday.

“Hello, Ms. Watson.” He smiled a shark-like smile. Harry stared, her hand making a move for the call button.

“I assure you that won’t be necessary. Your brother and I are well acquainted.” His smile did not waver.

“Forgive me if I don’t believe you,” Harry retorted. She and John had grown apart in the past five years, but she liked to believe that she still understood her brother enough to know the company he kept. Sleazy politician types did not factor in there.

“Ah. I believe it is I who must ask for forgiveness, for I haven’t properly introduced myself. “Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock’s brother,” he explained, extending his hand. Harry shook it gingerly.”

“Nice to meet you. How’s your brother doing?” Harry couldn’t hold back a note of bitterness. Sherlock had been in the same building as her brother and had escaped only a broken leg. As soon as she heard that he was involved, she was much less inclined to buy Lestrade’s bullshit story about investigating gas leaks. As far as Harry could tell, Sherlock’s brother was just as trustworthy as the man himself.

“Sherlock is...back to his regular self,” Mycroft said, grimacing. “And how is Doctor Watson?” He turned his scrutinizing gaze to John’s prone form.

“He’s in a coma,” she said hollowly. “The doctors are optimistic that he’ll make a full recovery, though,” she added as an afterthought. Harry hoped she sounded convincing.

His face softened in sympathy. “I’m truly sorry to hear that, Ms. Watson. I have every hope for his quick and speedy recovery.

“It’s always so difficult with younger siblings, don’t you agree?” Mycroft continued, taking a seat next to Harry. “You compete and you argue and you fight for affection, but in the end, it is always you who watches out for them and keeps them out of trouble. And it is a sad day when you realize that despite your best efforts, there are some things you cannot keep at bay.” He lapsed into thoughtful silence.

“John never needed taking care of,” Harry chuckled sadly. Mycroft turned to look at her with curiosity.

“He’s the sensible sibling, believe it or not,” she continued. “Gets it from our mum. God, I would drag him into the worst sort of trouble because I knew he would always stick around to bail me out. Not that he would shy away from anything dangerous. I remember that when he was nine, I yelled for him to jump from the roof of the barn into the pile of hay. I didn’t even have to taunt him. He just stood at the edge for a minute, disappeared from view, and then came hurtling through the air like some sort of bird of prey. He hit the hay and rolled onto his feet, laughing like nothing had happened. Believe me when I say that my brother has never attempted anything he wasn’t sure about and has never met a dare he didn’t attempt.”

Harry hadn’t realized how much she had said, until she looked over to see Mycroft staring at her with an unreadable expression.

“This explains why my brother seems to find his presence so invaluable,” he said thoughtfully.

Harry snorted. “Yeah, John’s not big on the self-preservation instinct thing.” She patted his arm for emphasis. “Your brother probably knows that already. The things he wouldn’t do for other people, though. God, you know I never understood why he did them. I thought he was looking for praise or had some sort of saint complex. I mean what kind of little boy tries to cheer up crying babies? He gave those twins his good toys, you know. Not my hand-me-down crap. It was the fire truck mum bought him for Christmas. I think she bought it hoping that it would inspire him to start acting like a regular kid."

“But after twenty-odd years of watching him sacrifice so much for the sake of others,” Harry continued, avoiding adding ‘especially me’ at the end, “I realized that he doesn’t do it for the attention or gratitude. I think he does it because he genuinely cares, and that he somehow feels responsible to solve all their stupid problems. I mean, for fuck’s sake, that kind of attitude can’t be normal human nature.”

She took a deep breath and rubbed her tired eyes. A lump was beginning to rise in her throat, threatening to make her cry. She couldn’t care less that she had just cussed up a storm in the company of someone who probably knew the Queen.

“I do believe I can relate,” Mycroft said suddenly. “Sherlock has never been one for taking care of himself, and neither does he bear any of Dr. Watson’s admirable qualities. Getting him to do anything remotely sensible is a struggle to say the least.” He gave an exasperated sigh. “In fact, the person that has come the closest is your brother. I have rarely seen Sherlock take to anyone so quickly. Perhaps he sensed Dr. Watson to be a kindred spirit - a thrill seeker much after his own heart.” He gave Harry a thin smile and stood to leave.

“But, Ms. Watson, before I leave, I do believe it would only be appropriate for me to share a story about Sherlock,” Mycroft said, turning back to face Harry. “When he was seven, our mother, in a fit of normalcy, decided to get him a puppy. It was a friendly little thing and it followed him everywhere. Sadly, Sherlock was going through a very intense period of rebellion at the time, a period defined by an incident in which he freed all the horses from the stable and chased them into the woods. He did not even name the dog, much less acknowledge its constant search for affection, though that did not seem to deter the pup from bounding behind him no matter where he went.

"It was March when Sherlock and his dog were out in the woods by the stream, collecting bugs. I had been back on a small holiday and went out to call him back to the house. After a few minutes and more than a few threats, he finally ran across the stream back towards the house. Tragically, his puppy, ever loyal, followed suit. The strong spring current must have swept and drowned the little dog, because Sherlock had greeted me alone. When he realized this, he sprinted back to the woods and plunged into the freezing waters. He returned, sodden and freezing, with the pup’s body cradled to his chest. He ignored all of our pleas to let the gardener bury the dog in the back garden. When I went up to my rooms later that night, I passed by his door only to hear a very queer sound. In my surprise, I stopped to look through the key hole. Sherlock had bundled the puppy in his winter jacket and was sitting on the floor next to it, crying and stroking the wet fur. It is a rare occurrence, I admit, but my brother does care. Even if it does come too late.” He gave Harry a curt nod and disappeared through the door.

Harry’s goodbye stuck in her throat. What the hell was she supposed to make of that morality tale? John is Sherlock’s puppy and it’s only a matter of time before he drowns in the proverbial stream? Make that a swimming pool. If that happened, no amount of crying was going to save Sherlock Holmes’ head from being neatly ripped off of his shoulders by a certain Harriet Watson.

“Fucking hell, I could do with a drink,” she sighed aloud. Harry would have loved to crawl into a gin bottle right now and never come out. She needed some food and sleep first, though. And John needed some better blankets. Maybe she could swing by Baker Street and get his pillow too. That would be a nice big sister thing to do.

When Harry went to sleep that night (slightly tipsy, but who could blame her), she dreamt that she was standing by the edge of a roaring river. Next to her was a little boy and on the other bank stood John. She and little boy were calling out to John to come across and join them. John just offered a sad smile and stepped into the torrential waters.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

If Sherlock’s leg hadn’t been broken, he would have kicked something. He felt like his brain was trying to crawl out of his ear and throw itself out of the window as a reprieve from the suffocating boredom of being stuck in a hospital room. At least he had been put next to John. Sherlock had no doubt it was Mycroft’s doing, considering that last night he was just about to be removed from the ICU if the relieved looks on the nurses’ faces were anything to go by.

Early next morning, Sherlock managed to procure his confiscated Blackberry from a young nurse who was finishing up her night shift (she was very careful and deliberate, must be inexperienced, old-fashioned hair style, religious jewelry, obviously mother’s influence; ergo, responds to authority). All it took was a single complaint to the head nurse, and the Blackberry found its way to his bedside table. Sherlock texted Lestrade to bring the files and sat back to wait.

At 37 minutes and 16 seconds past noon, Lestrade showed up with the files. Sherlock had been watching the clock for the past two hours, attempting to note discrepancies between the tics of the second hand. Having memorized the schedules of the three nurses on shift, this activity was only slightly more amusing than recounting the ceiling tiles (even if there was a particularly interesting stain that looked a little like blood). Lestrade obviously had not slept last night and it was affecting his mood.

“Here you go,” he said roughly, flinging the files onto Sherlock’s bed. “You have until tomorrow before I have to present something to the press, so do whatever you need to do to get me some results.” He rubbed a hand over his tired face, and turned to look at John.

“How is he?”

“Comatose.” Sherlock flipped rapidly through the photos of the wreckage.

“Jesus, Sherlock.” Lestrade gave him a pained look. He opened his mouth to say something else, but turned to look out the window instead.

“If you have something to say, say it now, otherwise your mood will worsen and you will end up drinking alone in your apartment tonight. Let’s avoid the hangover, shall we?” Sherlock flipped to the next file. Ah good, chemical analyses of the bombs.

Lestrade seemed to take his offer to heart, because he gripped the edge of Sherlock’s bed with a ferocity that foreshadowed a long bout of yelling.

"I realize, Sherlock, that emotions are not your forte. I have known you long enough to not expect any incredible acts of sympathy. But for fuck's sake, John is your friend! The least you could do is treat him like a human being. I mean, do you feel any remorse for what you did? You do realize that he wouldn't have his head smashed in if you didn't decide to have a little tête-à-tête with a psychopathic bomber?"

"You asked me how he was and I answered. I won't be blamed for your allergy to cold hard facts."

"And I suspect you are not to be blamed for what happened to John either. I have to go, Sherlock, but when I come back this evening, I want the truth about what happened at the pool. You owe me that much."

Lestrade paused in the doorway. "Oh, by the way, Mrs. Hudson's coming up." With a smirk, he shut the door behind him.

Mrs. Hudson arrived shortly after Lestrade’s departure in a flurry of movement. She worried and fussed, tutted and sighed, tucked extra blankets around John, shoved a protesting Sherlock into a jumper, hid contraband tea and biscuits (John's favorite), and finally settled down on a chair between their beds. Sherlock was grinding his teeth in agitation at having his files taken away like some naughty child. Mrs. Hudson seemed unfazed by his death glare as she alternatively subjected Sherlock and John to her motherly instincts.

"Sherlock, dear, is his hand supposed to move like that? Hadn't we better call a nurse?" she said upon her examination of John. "You poor dear," she continued, addressing John’s bruised face, "can you hear me? We're all waiting for you to wake up - Sherlock, me, and that nice sister of yours."

"He's in a coma, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock snapped, "I don't think he's taking requests. And his arm is fine. They are random muscle movements, nothing that indicates consciousness. Trust me, I have been observing them since the beginning, and I have yet to identify a pattern."

"Tsk tsk, Sherlock, be nice," she scolded. Mrs Hudson tucked the blankets tighter around John and ran a hand across his forehead to smooth down his hair. Sherlock wanted to ask what was so important about having a part John's hair look presentable when about a third of it was shaved off under the bandage, but he thought better of it.

Then, out of nowhere, Mrs Hudson produced a small bag which she handed to Sherlock. Inside was the skull. Sherlock took it out gingerly, running his fingers down the fused seams between the plates of bone.

"I know it's a little morbid to bring a skull to a hospital, but I thought you might like some familiar company. You know, someone to talk your cases over with while John's..." she trailed off, clearing her throat uncomfortably. Sherlock ran a finger around the eye sockets and across the teeth.

"Well, I'll leave you two to get reacquainted then. Alright, Sherlock, behave yourself and tell me if you two need anything. I expect to see you both back very soon." She gave him a peck on the cheek and patted John's arm fondly before leaving.

Sherlock sat stock still on the bed, the skull resting on his drawn-up knee. The shadows cast by the trees outside made it seem like it was roving its empty eye sockets around the room. Sherlock distinctly remembered how he got the skull. He was too proud of the effort to delete the memory. It had been in the first year of starting a consulting detective business, the same year he met Lestrade. A case had required him to read up quite a bit on the subject of skulls (a human skull was found on the living room floor of the president of an up and coming drug company; his daughter had been dealing her father's medicine on the side but more importantly was part of an animal rights group and was studying archaeology; she had put the skulls of several animals involved in the drug tests together to make a replica of a human one as a poetic threat to her father).

Sherlock had gone to St. Bart's mortuary afterwards, looking for his own human skull. It was there that he met for the first time a young autopsy technician who easily fell prey to his charming smile and allowed him to examine a John Doe as a potential candidate for what she was convinced was a police investigation into skulls. The corpse’s head had some blunt trauma but Sherlock took it anyway. He stripped the flesh, boiled and bleached the bones, patched up the fractures with glue stolen from an archaeology lab, and then varnished it until gleamed with a dark shine. He began talking to it soon afterwards, mostly because no one else would really listen.

Something about this memory bothered Sherlock now, like there was a piece missing. He realized he couldn't recall the face of the John Doe. It wasn't surprising - he had only been after the skull and as such the face was irrelevant. He sorely wished he had made space for it now, when the only face he could see had kind blue eyes and a large bleeding gash in bloodied blond hair. As if that weren't enough, as he palpated the fractures he had lovingly glued together, he could only wonder if John's head would feel the same. And the name. This is our newest friend, John, Molly had joked. This is my friend, John Watson, he had said to Sebastian.

Sherlock grabbed the skull and hurled it across the room, far away from him and John. It didn't shatter satisfyingly as he had hoped, but he had made sure it wouldn't when he made it five years ago. It lay on its side, eye sockets facing him, rocking from the impact. The dancing shadows made it seem even more alive. Sherlock tossed a blanket from his bed to cover it. The skulls are still on his tie, something whispered in his head. He rubbed roughly at his hair and face. There was no time for this; he had to work.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Harry came back to the hospital Sunday afternoon after making a detour by Baker Street to get John’s things. Mrs. Hudson, the sweet little old landlady, showed her up to John’s room. Apparently, she had beaten Harry to the punch and already swaddled John with pillows and blankets. Harry felt a sting of guilt for getting drunk last night, and as a result, being unable to drag herself out of bed this morning. She rifled around John’s sparsely decorated room for something nice to bring him so she could feel a little better about herself. She decided on a photo album she had given him when he was discharged. It had been lying about in her apartment for ages and she had thought it would be a nice sentimental present from sister to brother. Harry found it in an unopened box under John’s bed.

She stopped short of opening the door to John’s hospital room when she heard a voice. Her heart threatened to jump out of her chest in excitement, but she soon realized that it wasn’t her brother talking. Harry opened the door just a crack and peered in. The lower half of her brother was covered in papers and folders and his thigh was being used as writing desk by his insane flatmate. The same insane flatmate that was currently asking John about Czech connections, seemingly oblivious to the fact that John wasn’t replying. Harry felt like she should tell a nurse about this or maybe record this moment on her phone just in case there ever needs to be proof of Sherlock Holmes’ lunacy. What she did instead was what she did best - barge in and yell.

“What the hell are you doing? He’s not a fucking table put here for your convenience!”

That startled Sherlock enough to make him drop the folder he was holding. He glared at Harry as he struggled to pick it up without disturbing his broken leg, which rested on the adjacent chair. Harry snatched the folder off of the floor just before he could get to it, grabbed the rest of the papers from John’s bed, and dumped them all unceremoniously onto Sherlock’s lap. Sherlock paused, steepled his fingers together, and leaned back to give Harry a hard appraising look.

“You drank last night, even though you felt guilty about it and probably still do. Judging by the small stain on the inside of your wrist, it was wine. But most likely, the wine came after the gin considering you wouldn’t have spilled it otherwise. You woke up late this morning, seeing as you didn’t waste time to style your hair. Late for what? No work and unlikely you have other commitments when your brother is in the hospital. You meant to linger by his bedside all day like a doting sister, but instead you came in at three in the afternoon, bearing a photo album to keep yourself from feeling like an utter failure.”

Harry admired herself for not punching his smug face straight away. She silently took a seat on the other side of John’s bed, still subject to Sherlock’s unyielding stare.

“I asked you what the hell you were doing just now, not what I was up to last night.” She struggled to keep her voice level, but if this was how he wanted to play, so be it. Harriet Watson was a champion of all argument styles.

“I was working, until you interrupted. As you probably haven’t realized, this information is time-sensitive.”

“You piled my brother with papers and were using his leg to take notes on. If you were busy working, you could have used your own bed.”

“It was inconvenient to use my bed because then I would have to turn around to talk to John.”

“He’s comatose. What possible reason do you have for discussing Czech people with him?”

“If that’s the case, then why did you visit?”

Harry floundered for a retort. She had been close to saying something like ‘because I miss him, because I’m scared, because I love him,’ but stopped short, afraid to be caught in a some logical trap. But the more she thought, it seemed less like a trap and more like an admission. Either way, Harry decided to change the subject.

“Why are you in his room? You should have been discharged by now.”

He quirked his lips upwards. “Quite observant of you. We are being kept together because we are principal witnesses in the investigation.”

“Sure,” Harry snorted. “Whatever.” Both she and Sherlock decided to call it draw as they ignored each other in silence. He continued to rifle through the papers, pausing occasionally to look up like he wanted to say something, but always turning back with a disappointed look.

“I’m not leaving just because you need to have a one-way conversation with my brother.” Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes in reply. “You might as well talk to me.”

“And what would we talk about?”

Harry pondered that for a minute. There was only one reason she was stuck in the same room as Sherlock.

“John.” That was a subject she was well versed in. Sherlock looked at her curiously.

“And what is it you have to share?”

Harry could only laugh at that.

“Everything.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 _Everything? What the hell?_

“You do realized that I know quite a bit about your brother considering I lived with him for the past three months.”

She laughed even harder at that.

“There is only one person that knows a lot about John Watson, and that’s me. Everyone else just knows what John deigns to tell them.”

“I don’t ask, I observe.”

“You won’t believe how much he can hide in plain sight.”

“John doesn’t seem the type for subterfuge.”

“Subterfuge or not, you don’t know John Watson.”

“What don’t I know?”

“Where was he born?”

“North east. Obviously.”

“Is that all?”

Of course not, Sherlock thought, but he realized there was nothing more he could say with certainty. If not for John’s occasional Geordie pronunciation, Sherlock would have been hard-pressed to give any sort of answer.

Harry smiled triumphantly. “I thought so. He’s quite good at avoiding drawing attention to himself.”

“Fine, tell me.” He waved his hand impatiently.

“Well, you were right about him being born in the North East. We were born in Alnwick, on a farm by Rothbury. Our dad was Harold Ewan Watson, a born and bred Scot, and our mum was Jane Isabel Fischer, a ballerina born in Brixton. We had two acres of land and a tiny ancient brick house.

"Our dad worked construction, farm stuff mostly. He was away most of the time, so Mum kept the household and raised us. She taught dance lessons at the school and got me into ballet when I was only three.”

“How did they die,” Sherlock butted in suddenly, “your parents?”

Harry had to suppress her momentary shock. Doubtless, he managed to deduce that from her left eye.

"Mum died when I was 21 and Da followed her after three years. For mum, it was cancer - pancreatic. She held on for a year before it got too much. They put her in an induced coma to ease the pain, but she just kept getting worse and worse, until keeping her on life support was all they could do to keep her alive.

"I remember the doctor handing us some forms, saying it was our choice whether she stays on life support. John took the forms and led Da away. Those five minutes were the longest conversation they ever had. Then he came and told me that he was going to take Mum off of life support. Not ‘we,’ not ‘they,’ but ‘he.’ It was like he agreed to shoulder the burden of her death all by himself. I didn’t even argue.

"They turned off the machines early next morning at sunrise. John wanted it like that for some reason. He was the only one in the room when she died, and he held her hand the whole time. I just numbly sat in the lobby, and when he came out, I burst into tears. He turned eighteen that year, and he held me like a little child as I sobbed into his shoulder. John didn’t break down the whole time he was planning the funeral and boxing up all of her things. Then two weeks after the funeral, as he was taking down Mum’s ballet bar, he hammered a nail straight through the palm of his right hand.”

Sherlock gingerly picked up John’s hand and turned his palm upwards. In the middle was a faded scar the size of a cigarette burn. Sherlock had noticed it when John handed him his phone and simply put it into the category of childhood scars. Looking at it now, he berated himself for not noticing earlier that it was not some random scratch. The position was the only one that could avoid both breaking the bone and severing the vein. The blood loss would have been significant - nicking the vein was inevitable - and the pain would have probably been unbearable, but it was done rationally with full awareness of the consequences. Sherlock would have given anything to have been in John’s head at that moment.

“Da died of cirrhosis. He moved back to Scotland after Mum died, and didn’t say a word to us for three years. Not that it was a big difference from the previous twenty-one. John and I got a phone call from his brother to come to the funeral. The whole thing felt awkward, like we were burying a stranger. Our Da did leave us a parting gift though; we inherited the farm house along with its crippling debt. John would have never joined the army if it wasn’t for that damn house.” Harry absently rubbed John’s knuckles with her thumb.

“I take it you were poor as children.”

“Yea, but we didn’t think it was weird, you know. I mean, we had telly and a fridge and the neighbors had a video camera, so it wasn’t like we were third world children. Probably the worst part of it all was having to shower and go to the bathroom outside. John and I had one hot shower a week - the rest of the time, we would bring in ice-cold water from the well and basically douse ourselves. It was all good fun until it was wintertime and you had icicles in your hair by the time you ran back home.

"The upside was that we had a lot of weird hobbies. We were pretty professional hare and quail hunters. I got the rifle because I was older, and John got the hunting bow that Da won off some guy in a poker game. Our neighbor was horse-breeder so, in return for helping him out, we got to use two of the horses to go hunting. We were like two savages, riding around with dead animals tied to our saddles, clothes all torn and muddy.

"The people in our area were pretty big on reenactments, so we picked up some sword-fighting, traditional Scottish dances, and even a little Gaelic. The wife of the wheat farmer taught us how to make moonshine. John learned how to play the guitar and the banjo from the locals at the pub and how to bare-knuckle box from the boys in the gypsy camp. I bet you didn’t know all that, did you?”

Sherlock stayed quiet. She was right, he didn’t know. And he hated it. He felt a surge of petulance similar to when his logical deduction of all the evidence did not yield the right solution. There’s always something, he thought bitterly.

"You didn’t know that when he was twelve, he took on five thugs to protect me and got beaten half to death. The gypsy boys let those bastards have it when they found out. You didn’t know that his teacher told our parents not to waste time with John’s A-levels because he was ‘a good boy, but not exactly promising.’ And that then he went on to be in the top 10% of his class at Bart’s. You didn’t know that he worked at a gay bar for the first two years of uni and that he bought a Ural motorcycle with just his tips. He marched in three LGBT pride parades and bailed me out of jail after all three of them. He slept with enough people in three years to fill a small bus, but the only one he wanted to propose to was an international student and a daughter of a Zulu chief. She went back to South Africa before he got the chance, and he hasn’t pursued a long term relationship since then.

"There’s a John Watson you will never get to know, whose smile actually reached his eyes, who backpacked through Europe on a budget of 500 pounds, who never once woke up screaming in the night. And it’s not your fault.” Sherlock looked up at Harry in surprise.

“I know only three people that John truly trusted his entire life. One of them was our mum, and the other two are me and Arthur. I am the only one left, and I still managed to take his faith in me and shit on it by leaving him to take care of me while I got sloshed and pissed away my money and chance at love. No wonder he refused work at the military hospital in London and just kept on going back to Afghanistan.” Harry kept her gaze directed at her feet, her long hair hiding her face from view.

“Who was Arthur? I assume he was a friend since you do not have an extended family.” Sherlock couldn’t keep from asking the question. John never mentioned anyone named Arthur - he wasn’t even in his phone or email contacts. Harry laughed a little in response.

“Yeah, somehow I’m not surprised that you have no idea. Arthur Frederiksen - his grandad was Norwegian - was his best friend for twenty years. Grew up ten miles away from us and worked for BBC News as a photographer.” Sherlock kept on staring at her, knowing that doing so would prompt her to tell more.

“You probably want to know what happened between him and John, am I right?” It was all Sherlock could do to keep from nodding vigorously.

“He died, simple as that. Well, not simple at all actually. He died in 2005, during John’s stint with the SAS - doubt you knew that either, in the attacks on the London Underground. I had to call John with the news. Afterwards, I didn’t hear from him until he came back on leave. By then, he had withdrawn completely and had been reassigned back to the RAMC because of a combat incident. Apparently, he had refused to follow a direct order and assaulted a superior officer, but instead of a court martial, they allowed him to go back to the RAMC. Knowing my brother, he probably refused to fire on civilians and then clocked some major-general prick for doing so. My guess is that they weren’t supposed to be firing on civilians in the first place, so they had to let him off easy so there wouldn’t be some media issue.”

A thousand questions were competing for attention in Sherlock’s head. Most of them had to do with why John had never mentioned Arthur before. Sherlock felt vaguely unsettled, the balance he had so carefully crafted with John beginning to sway dangerously with the addition of another person. He always assumed (and even felt comforted) that John did not seem to make close friends easily, that he had been just as solitary as Sherlock. Now everything seemed off and Sherlock realized that he was stuck in quite unfamiliar waters.

"My brother deals with grief like he deals with all pain,” Harry continued, “by smothering it relentlessly until he can bear it. Sometimes, it comes out in a burst of self-destruction, but never sobbing or complaining. And the reason he didn’t mention Arthur is the same reason he never mentioned any of the above. Arthur used to say that for all his generosity, there is a small part that he wants to keep for himself, to keep him feeling like John. So what I just told you is not to be taken lightly. Do not breathe a word to my brother about anything I said today - the only reason I did it is because I am his stupid sister and I don’t want him to die with you thinking that he was some dull ordinary bloke in a jumper. And remember, if and when he does tell you a story about himself, count yourself fortunate to have earned it.”

Harry sat back in her chair with an air of finality. Sherlock looked up at clock as it stuck five and then down at the files he hadn’t touched for the past two hours. Then he looked at John. He was already a singular presence in Sherlock’s life, given that he was the only person that truly tolerated the worst of him, admired the best, and (unlike the rest) never failed to baffle him. Now he seemed to have taken up every single space in his brain, a giant disorganized folder on his hard-drive. Sherlock felt like strewing John’s bed with papers again to mimic the chaos in his mind. There were things he did not know what do to with, useless facts (who cares about his motorcycle or his girlfriend) that he couldn't throw away because he couldn’t shake the feeling there was more to them. There were shocking revelations that merited a folder of investigation of their own. And then there were the questions that littered his mind-drive, questions that achieved no purpose and only seemed to spawn more of their own when he thought about them. Sherlock’s head began to throb.

“I think I’m going to head out for some dinner,” Harry said, picking up her purse. “I’m going to leave the album here, in case you want a look or something.” She bent down and kissed the unbruised part of John’s forehead.

“Come back soon,” she whispered, and left the room.

It didn’t take long for Sherlock to give in and open the album. The first several pages were photos of John and Harry as kids and teenagers, most of them dedicated to Harriet’s dancing. Both of them were painfully skinny, tan despite the English weather. John’s father was conspicuously absent in all of them. There were several photos of John on horseback, holding the hunting bow and wrapped in an oversize sheepskin jacket. There were photos of him with various sports teams, cliff diving at the beach, running around with Harriet and a huge wolfhound, and looking embarrassed in full Scottish regalia. He looked different, not just younger and skinnier, but...happier, constantly smiling and waving at the camera. Sherlock also noted that the jumper fetish seemed to have started early.

The next set of photos was taken by a different person, someone with knowledge of photography and less maternal predilection for cute poses. This was John in London, studying at Bart’s. He looked more like the John Sherlock knew - small inward smiles and tired worried eyes. Harry looked as boisterous as ever, the beginnings of her alcoholism already evident.

The next photo caught Sherlock’s eye - it was John sitting on a chair, back to a balcony window. He was leaning forward, his attention focused somewhere to his right. Judging from the light and his clothes, it was a spring morning, but that did not matter because Sherlock had never seen John laugh like that. His whole face was animated, not ducked down to hide his smile, and his hands were on his knees, not clamping over his mouth to smother the sound. Sherlock pulled the photo out and tucked it into his cast - John wouldn’t notice anyway.

After that, there several shots of John in his army uniform with Harry looking less than pleased by his side. Some photos with army mates, and then one at a wedding. John was laughing the same way as in the other picture, but this time he was looking at the man next to him. Sherlock flipped over the photo - “Arthur and Viola’s wedding (June 5, 2004).” He had seen the other man in several photos, but did not pay him more than a cursory glance. This was different; John had a hand on his shoulder and they were looking at each other, frozen mid-laugh. Arthur was slightly taller than John, with dark hair and quite distinct North European features. Nothing remarkable in Sherlock’s opinion, but that did not alleviate the sudden stab of envy and...was it hurt? Harry’s words kept echoing in his head - “his closest friend for twenty years, John trusted him.” And now only a sociopath for a flatmate.

Sherlock put away the album without looking through the rest. He didn’t want to see (and couldn’t help but imagine) the progression - as the smiles became rarer, the circles under the eyes became more prominent, as life slowly emptied him out. He picked up the case files and began his monologue once more.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lestrade returned to the hospital around eight o’clock Sunday evening. He had been buried under a mountain of paperwork and evidence bags since the wee hours of Saturday morning and he finally snapped, packing up his bag and escaping his office while no one was looking. He need Sherlock’s testimony to tie all this insanity together and he was going to squeeze it out of him one way or the other.

He walked into Sherlock and John’s room to find all the case notes and photos strewn about John’s feet. Sherlock had his eyes closed in contemplation, hands pressed together in a prayer position. Lestrade thought, in that moment, he almost looked penitent.

“Ah, Lestrade. Good of you to come. I assume you have been tracking where the Semtex came from, and I am pleased to say that I figured it out. It was special order by our bomber, considering it has no detection taggant - only found in Semtex made before 1990. Since the shelf life of Semtex is considerably less than 20 years, I would venture a guess that he had it specially made. I would start with an investigation into whatever IRA members are currently under arrest, seeing as Moriarty is not a name you commonly would find on our little island. Now for the Czech connections...” Sherlock trailed off, noting Lestrade’s lack of note-taking.

“You can fill me in on those details later, Sherlock. I want you to tell me what happened at the pool first.” Lestrade pulled up a chair next to him. Sherlock stayed quiet and pensive. “It helps to start at the beginning,” Lestrade ventured, prompting Sherlock to roll his eyes.

“I realized, shortly after locating the Bruce Partington plans for an employer of sorts, that I had been playing into the bomber’s hands all along.” Now Lestrade rolled his eyes, ignoring Sherlock’s livid stare.

“He wanted those plans from the beginning and was using this chase about London as a distraction. I wanted to lure him out and I knew no better way to do that than to show up alone with the plans in hand.”

“Why the pool?”

“It was where Carl Powers died - the scene of his first ever crime and my first ever puzzle. It was only poetic that we meet there again.”

“So you showed up...”

“Yes, yes, I showed up at midnight with the plans and the Browning.” At this Lestrade only raised an eyebrow. He knew the true owner of that Browning but he let it go.

“And what happened then?” Lestrade was wondering when John had come into play in all of this, but going by Sherlock’s expression, he felt he already knew.

“And then it went wrong,” Sherlock snapped. “It was stupid of me not to expect some sort of leverage on his part, especially since I was bringing my own.”

“John came out of the locker room, dressed in an anorak. The first couple seconds after I heard his voice, I did not know what to think, but it didn’t take long for me to understand the true situation. His voice was stilted and he had an earpiece. I could see the bulges of the vest underneath his coat. He was blinking S.O.S but I knew what he truly wanted to say was ‘get out now.’

"They had a sniper on him, laser guide directed in a kill shot. As soon as my good behavior was ensured, then it was Moriarty’s turn. He had posed as the boyfriend of Molly Hooper, the technician in Bart’s mortuary, for no other reason than to toy with me. I offered him the plans, in an implicit exchange, but John took the opportunity to grab him in a choke-hold in an effort to let me escape. I did not run, but neither could I shoot Moriarty while the sniper could blow up the Semtex. Moriarty had a sniper put laser sight on my head to get John to back off. Shortly after that exchange, Moriarty left. I freed John from the Semtex vest and went after him, but he was gone.

"It didn’t take long for him to come back. He trained the snipers on us again. I think he expected me to bargain for my life, to try and shoot him, or to run. I don’t think he expected me to fire on the Semtex vest, or for John to tackle me into the pool.

"There was no immediate explosion. I did not miss - the plastic strapped to the vest wasn’t Semtex but a decoy. Then I realized that John wasn’t in the water with me. I broke the surface just in time to see him jump over the vest - the snipers had disappeared - and run down the corridor after Moriarty. It was then the real detonation happened. Moriarty or someone outside must have had the second detonator the whole time. Once again, this was my oversight. I was pushed underwater and only just managed to keep conscious. When I surfaced again, the far wall was in ruins and the floor was ripped open. The explosion was much smaller than the other two, but I could barely see past the choking dust.

"I found the edge of the pool and climbed out only to find that my leg was broken and had a piece of tile sticking out of it. I crawled through the rubble in the corridor, trying to find John. He was unconscious when I found him so I had to dig him out. By then there was a good inch of pool water on the ground and electrical wires were arcing overhead. I dragged him to a relatively dry spot to await the rescue. His head wound was heavily bleeding, so I used the sleeve of my shirt to bind it. I drifted in and out of consciousness until the rescue team found us. I remember as far as being brought outside and then I woke up in the hospital.”

Lestrade had been taking diligent notes the whole time. The biggest bullet point said ‘talk to Molly Hooper’ and was circled and underlined several times. It was strange hearing the detached way Sherlock talked about the rescue; Lestrade heard the report from Donovan and the rescue team himself, and it wasn’t nearly so neat and clinical. It was true they found them in a dry spot amidst the rubble. It was also true that John’s head was bound with Sherlock’s sleeve. What wasn’t true was that Sherlock was pliant and unconscious. He had an vice-like grip on John’s body which was draped across his lap, John’s head on his shoulder, and was staring off into the middle distance. It took three guys to pry him away and he struggled the whole way out. He refused to let the ambulance leave until John was out of the building, but by then, the paramedics had enough and gave him a strong sedative so they could drive away in peace. Donovan had regaled him with this tale in a voice that said if she didn’t see it herself, she wouldn’t have believed it either.

“So are you finally ready to listen to what I have to say?” Sherlock said impatiently. “It would do you well to start gathering up all of Ms. Wenceslas’ contacts that she no doubt surrendered in her confession, so that we may start charting Moriarty’s web of contacts. We may have some trouble in getting them to confess...”

It took Lestrade a minute to catch up with the barrage of words. “We? _WE?!_ Sherlock, are you mad?”

“You can’t be expected to do this properly without my help.”

“I am a DI, Sherlock, I think I can handle a few confessions. There’s gonna be no ‘we’ on this case for a while. For a long while.”

“And why not?” Sherlock’s indignation was palpable.

“Why not? Why -” Lestrade couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He attempted to marshal all of the arguments screaming in his head into something coherent.

“Why not?” he began again. “Getting yourself killed once not enough for you, was it? Or maybe making it out of an explosion with a broken leg is too tame for you? Want to try for a coma like the good doctor here next time? Or, better yet, why don’t you ask him if he wants to die for you again? Because that’s what’ll happen, Sherlock. This Moriarty might spare you for his little games, but he has absolutely no qualms about sacrificing others. If you start to pry again, if you start organizing another one of your games, you might as well take a gun straight to Dr Watson’s head. You need to ask yourself whether this is a sacrifice you are willing to make.”

Lestrade felt slightly embarrassed about making a scene in a hospital, but it had the intended effect. Sherlock was tensely staring at his cast, his hospital gown fisted in white-knuckled hands.

“There are notes on the backs of some of the reports,” he spoke up after a time. “You might find them useful.” He wordlessly offered Lestrade the stack of papers and turned back to focusing on his kneecap.

“Thanks,” Lestrade offered guiltily. He truly began to feel bad for what he had said, which now seemed to be the equivalent of pouring salt in a fresh wound. He began to apologize, but Sherlock was dutifully ignoring his presence, so he took the files and left - he had a press conference in the morning and a week’s worth of stubble to get rid of before then.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When Harry visited Monday morning, more doctors than usual seemed to be in the room. At first Harry felt like she was having heart attack, but then, through the cluster of nurses, she saw John move his hand. Not some random twitch, but a whole movement of his forearm and elbow. Harry was halfway to the bed before a nurse escorted her out. Outside she saw Sherlock, who seemed to have suffered the same fate. He gave her a small nod of greeting.

“This morning,” he said, anticipating her question. “Gave me quite a start when he grabbed my wrist.”

Harry wondered if Sherlock fell asleep on John’s bed but decided not to press the subject. “So he’s awake then?”

“No, not yet. He’s not exactly lucid, just opens his eyes occasionally and tries to move.” Sherlock sounded like a kid who just found out that his puppy could poop.

Harry came back the next day only to find Sherlock sitting outside again. He seemed anxious, which began to worry her. Not now, she thought, just let John wake up.

“What happened? Is he alright?”

“He’s fine. He’s awake. Opened his eyes not two hours ago and hasn’t closed them since.” Harry let out a sigh of relief. “I tried to talk to him, but they wouldn’t let me, to quote, because it would confuse him. I didn’t realize that sending in some strange therapist instead would confuse him less. He can’t stand therapists, anyway.”

Sherlock’s tone of voice suggested he couldn’t stand therapists either, and the nurses to boot. Harry giggled uncontrollably at that. “No, you’re right. If those passive-aggressive blog entries were anything to go by.” She started laughing even harder. It seemed okay to laugh, even proper, because John would write in his blog again, ignore her texts again, run around doing god-knows-what with Sherlock again, and that was perfect. Harry felt lightheaded and so relieved she could scarcely draw a full breath. She finally sat down, smiling like an idiot.

A small lady in a professional skirt and blue silk blouse opened the door and invited them in. She was very pretty with her friendly smile and honeyed voice. Harry gave a flirty smirk. Sherlock stared daggers.

John looked up when they entered the room. Harry had expected some spark of recognition as he would give her a smile and then a dramatic tearful reunion would follow. She so badly wanted a second chance, to be his stupid sister again. Instead, he looked at her hollowly for a few moments, brow creased in concentration. Harry felt like her organs were in free fall. He forgot me, she thought, he doesn’t even know his own sister. Then, his face cleared and he smiled slightly.

“Harry. You’re here,” he said, his quiet voice filled with surprise. Harry could have cried when she heard that. She tried to keep calm but couldn’t stop the errant tears that slipped down cheeks.

John’s gaze shifted to Sherlock, who was still standing by the door. Please recognize him, Harry pleaded, come on. John was staring directly at him, but Harry could tell he was grasping for a name. Sherlock, she longed to tell him, come on now, you know who it is.

“Sherlock,” he breathed out with relief. Sherlock, who had looked stricken the entire time, relaxed visibly. The pretty therapist seemed pleased and left the room. Harry and Sherlock stood awkwardly rooted to their spots, neither one wanting to make the first move. John was looking at both of them with some confusion. Finally, they made their way to sit on either side of his bed. Harry had hoped Sherlock would leave, but then again he probably wanted the same from her.

“What happened?” John’s voice was quiet and rough from disuse. He was alternating to look at each of them, waiting for an answer.

“How much do you remember?” Harry asked, covering his hand with her own. She was afraid he would pull back, but he let her. He was so much warmer now, she thought.

“There was an explosion across the street from the flat. I saw it on the news in the morning and ran back from Stamford’s place to see if you were okay.” He turned to look at Sherlock. “That’s the last thing I remember. They tell me more than a week has passed since then. You must have broken your leg in the explosion, but how did I end up here? Was I hit by a car? Was there another bomb?”

Sherlock, who had been staring at John in shock, averted his eyes at the last question. John gave him a pointed look.

“Tell me what happened.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sherlock wanted to lie. He had not expected John’s last guess to be so accurate, and as a result, could not school his face into a neutral expression in time. John caught it, damn him, and now waited for an answer. Sherlock wanted to lie, lie as he had done countless times before when it had served to his advantage - to Molly, to Lestrade, to Mycroft (when he was still naive enough to underestimate his brother). His brain had generated more than enough viable excuses and explanations; all he had to do was open his mouth. So why couldn’t he?

Sherlock Holmes never realized he had a conscience until it reared its ugly head in that particular moment. He could have probably kissed Anderson and then called Mycroft for a family reunion with more ease than he could have lied to John right then. John, whose blood had soaked Sherlock’s shirt, who offered to die for him (and with him), who was kidnapped and wrapped in Semtex because Sherlock had lied and, like a first-class idiot, had let him go.  
He did not deserve John’s trust, and neither was he likely to get it after this. Defeated, Sherlock mustered his courage and told the truth.

It went better than expected. Aside from Harry’s murderous rage, which she managed to rein in until John was asleep and they were out of the room, nothing cataclysmic took place. John did not say a word, except for a little ‘huh’ after Sherlock had finished. He looked at Sherlock strangely - part confusion, part shock, and part a mixture of relief and serious contemplation - making Sherlock wonder just how much he began to recall.

Three days later they were discharged. Sherlock had never been so excited to go back to the flat, even refusing to wait in the lobby for the cab. Hospital stays drove him up the wall with boredom, and even John wasn’t much help, awake or not. John sat beside him, face pale and drawn, gazing somewhere off into the distance. He had refused to be escorted out in a wheelchair, but the five-minute walk had exhausted him. He was bundled up like a small child, a sad reminder of the man who had just recently worn light jackets. The edge of his scar peeked out of the bandages from underneath the woolen ski hat Harry had brought him. They had shaved off the rest of his hair, leaving him as bald as the skull with his scar an angry reddish-purple fault line running across the side of his head. To Sherlock, it seemed as if someone stripped away the very John-ness of his being, leaving behind bare bones. Only his eyes gave any evidence that he was in there at all - still bright and liquid blue, though dimmed from exhaustion and constant migraines.

The cab ride was long and quiet, and Sherlock passed the time impatiently tapping his foot. The sooner he was home, the sooner John was home, the better. Sherlock hoped the warmth and familiarity of the flat would stop John from looking, as Lestrade so eloquently put it, like death warmed up.

They were met at the door by Harry and Mrs. Hudson. Harry was holding a bag from the chemist filled with enough painkillers to down a small horse. John was prescribed them for his dizziness and migraines, but Sherlock was silently hoping he could steal a few pills from each bottle for some chemical tests.

By the time they got up the stairs, Harry had to guide John to the couch to keep him from falling. Sherlock’s arms were incredibly sore from the crutches and his cast itched relentlessly, so he also collapsed onto the plush leather. Harry and Mrs. Hudson bustled about the flat for an hour, ‘tidying up,’ but Sherlock couldn’t muster the energy to yell at them to leave his experiments alone. John fell asleep next to him, curled up deceptively small, and Mrs. Hudson clucked to herself as she covered him with a blanket.

Harry came by several times over the next couple of weeks, a marked change from posting a few sentences on John’s blog. At first Sherlock found her presence irritating, especially since she did not even attempt to hide that reason for her visits were to make sure Sherlock hadn’t killed John yet. But as it turned out, Harriet Watson was the perfect antidote to Mrs. Hudson’s insistent nagging, so Sherlock kept his mouth shut. She had sobered up considerably (at least for the visits), which Sherlock considered an admirable achievement for such a short period of time.

John usually refereed her visits but this time there was no such luck. John Watson, master of silent suffering, had gone up to his room yesterday, and remained there until Sherlock found him at three in the afternoon today. The pain in his head had rendered him barely conscious (though conscious enough to refuse painkillers), and the most Sherlock could do was wrestle him under the duvet and hope he lived through the night. When Harry came by, Sherlock pointed her upstairs and returned to experimenting on the unwanted pills.

“He didn’t take the painkillers, did he? God, you would think after twelve hours of constant pain he would accept any relief,” Harry said when she returned.

“He has a good reason for not taking them,” Sherlock answered without looking up.

“What did he tell you?” Harry sounded hopeful.

“Everything.” Sherlock had difficulty not turning around to smile smugly at Harriet. It was true; after Sherlock had refused to back down with the painkillers, John told him about developing a morphine addiction after getting shot. The psychosomatic pain and hand tremor had developed during his withdrawal. John told him about his alcoholic father and how his mother had been taken away as a little girl because his grandmother had spent all of the welfare money on heroin. You’re not the only one that got clean, Sherlock, he said before falling silent once more. Sherlock wanted to tell him about the cocaine, but John had fallen back into restless sleep before he could. It felt like a strange privilege to carry around such intimate information, like being entrusted a priceless treasure after you had just dropped something.

“Congratulations.” Sherlock looked back to see Harry give him a mischievous smile. “Be good to him. Or you’ll have me to deal with.”

“I promise,” he answered, putting another drop of acid to dissolve the outer coating of the pill. He didn’t know how much promises from sociopaths to alcoholics were worth, but at least a much better person had faith in both of them.

**Author's Note:**

> Sarah's apartment was changed to Stamford's because I couldn't think of a place to stick her in the story.


End file.
